


I'll Be Seeing You

by LateStarter58



Series: Sarah's Smutty Notebook [22]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Supernatural Elements, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 11:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17079851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: It's Tom's birthday, and he's taking the scenic route to see his Mum in Suffolk when something odd happens.





	I'll Be Seeing You

**_“I'll be seeing you_ **

**_In every lovely summer's day_ **

**_In everything that's night and day_ **

**_I'll always think of you that way_ **

**_I'll find you in the morning sun_ **

**_And when the night is new_ **

**_I'll be looking at the moon_ **

**_But I'll be seeing you”_ **

_I’ll Be Seeing You, Lyrics by Irving Kahal_

 

February in England is a fickle month. Rain is as likely as snow and ice, but just once in awhile you might find a birthday in that month honoured with piercing bright sunshine. So it was this time. The light flickered, strobe-like through the serried ranks of pines, occasionally bursting through to sear Tom Hiddleston’s retinas as he reached one of the felled areas or passed the wide-open spaces of that old Cold War relic, _Bentwaters_ … Once, forty years before he was born, there had even been a hot war, and young men had taken off from near here and never returned. It was hard to believe, on this peaceful morning.

Tom tapped the button on the steering wheel, turning up the music. He loved this journey; he preferred it when he had time like today, and could take this quieter, more gentle road north of Woodbridge and drive through the forest instead of the lorry-filled, white van madness of the A12. A kestrel hovered over the verge as the Jag turned into Tunstall village, its bright eyes fixed on a movement in the grass. A dozen lapwings launched skywards from a field, swooping and soaring in their helter-skelter, wildly extravagant flight as he accelerated out at the other end. Suffolk - he loved it. He was a city boy, but this road was as familiar to him as his own London street. He glanced at the seat next to him. _Flowers for Mum_. His birthday; her treat. He smiled to himself, looking forward to a day or two of being spoiled.

Then the first strange thing happened. A few minutes out of Tunstall, the cat’s purr began to falter, then die. He pulled to the side, tried to restart the engine, but no dice. This car had never let him down, but now it had simply stopped dead. He looked at his phone: that was the second peculiarity. No signal. _That’s weird. I’m sure I've never had trouble here before._ Tom got out of the car, trying to picture how far he was from the nearest house. They were few and far between on this stretch, where Tunstall forest blankets the sandy heath up to the banks of the Alde. The village he’d passed through was further back than the next inhabited spot, of that he was sure. He recalled a pair of cottages high up above the road and set off, thinking that on this bright sunny morning a walk would be fun. He could borrow a phone, call the _AA_ and get some air. He had time, and it was his special day, after all…

He was dressed for a walk, in his beloved _Ariats,_ jeans and warm wool jacket. He marched, _Pine/Conrad_ inhabiting him, feeling energised, happy. The sound of an engine above pulled him back from his musings. It was not a jet - there were no _USAF_ fighters based up the road anymore - in fact it sounded like an old plane: a _Spitfire_ or something. _That’s weird. Maybe someone has a preserved one they keep on the old airbase…_ The plane flew low overhead, and as it passed over the gap between the tall trees that surrounded Tom he saw the markings - full WWII livery. He smiled and waved to the pilot.

Then the next, really strange thing happened. The weather changed - on a sixpence. Dark clouds gathered suddenly overhead, and rain started to fall steadily. Tom speeded up, not quite running, and took to the edge of the road, borrowing what shelter he could from the forest. It was eerily quiet: not one car had passed him. The B1069 isn't very busy, but it’s not usually deserted either. After a few minutes, the rain increased in intensity, bouncing off the tarmac and soaking the cuffs of his jeans, pouring down the back of his neck and flattening his curls. He broke into a run.

As he approached a slight bend in the road, Tom saw smoke rising from beyond a high hedge. He frowned; he wasn’t that close to the cottages yet. Perhaps this was something else... All at once a small brown shape was hurtling towards him. As it got closer, he identified it as a dachshund: black and tan, sleek and shiny as a hotdog. Tom stopped and crouched down; the little dog launched itself, licking his face and chuntering with joy at their meeting. Tom laughed and straightened up as the dog continued to jump and scrabble at him.

“Now then, little feller, where have you come from?”

The dog turned and ran ahead, and Tom followed. As he passed the end of the hedge a small flint-faced cottage was revealed. The front garden was a neat patchwork of beds, all apparently planted with rows of vegetables - he saw onions, cabbage and Brussels sprouts, and other things he couldn't identify. The dachshund ran through the open front gate and up the path, yapping happily. The door opened and a young woman was framed there. He heard her scolding the dog.

“Gus! Where have you been, you little devil? How did you- Oh, hello!”

Tom was standing uncertainly, hands in pockets in the gateway, the rain still soaking him. He nodded and pulled out a hand to salute her meekly.

“Come in, sir, won’t you? Come out of this awful weather! You must be drenched.”

“Thanks. Yes, I am rather.”

He hurried up the path, his hand extended. “Tom Hiddleston. Thank you. Your little dog found me. I’m afraid my car has broken down up the road, towards Tunstall way, and I couldn't get a signal.”

The woman looked confused at his words, but smiled cautiously. “I see… well, I’m Mrs Tudor. _Beryl_ ,” she added quickly. “Nice to meet you. Come on inside, out of the deluge!”

Tom followed her and Gus into the narrow hall and down it, into the spice-scented warmth of her kitchen.  He looked around, open-mouthed. Brown bakelite light switches, fading yellow wallpaper, crocheted shawls on the chair backs. There was a Victorian-style black range on one side, heat radiating from it and a kettle bubbling on the top, over the fire; the dachshund had settled into a wickerwork bed beside it. By the outside door was a tall, pale blue wooden cabinet, with frosted glass in the upper doors and a drop-down table open with a mixing bowl on it. Nothing in the room would have been out of place in the 1940s. Including Beryl, he now realised; her long dark brown curls were gathered into a net, and she was wearing a thin green cotton shirt and grey slacks of which Katherine Hepburn would have approved. Her feet were in sturdy brown boots. A retro-style squat brown radio on the windowsill spilled Glenn Miller into the shadowy room.

He had heard about these people who ‘live’ in past times.

“This place is amazing. You’re obviously an enthusiast.”

She looked at him blankly, obviously not understanding. “Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Hiddleston? I’m afraid I’ve no sugar - I used all I had saved up for the cake that’s in the oven - but I do have some milk. Working on a farm has some advantages.” She smiled.

Tom stood dripping on the flagstones, reluctant to move in case he wet every surface. “Thanks, but do you happen to have a towel I could use?”

“Oh yes, of course! Sorry!” She handed him a tea towel and he rubbed at his hair. “Now I look… you’re wet through.”

“It’s fine… If I could just use your phone?”

“Phone? Lord, I don't have a _telephone…_ there’s one at the _Crown,_ in Snape, I think…”

_Who doesn't have a phone these days?_

He sat down at the kitchen table abruptly, unsure what to do, and took the tea she had poured him. Beryl sat down opposite him and sipped from her own cup. She tipped her head towards the oven.

“Shame about the weather. It’s my birthday...hence the cake.” She looked wistful.

“Really? It’s mine today too!”

“Happy birthday!” they said in unison, raising their cups in salute and laughing.

“Are you on leave, Mr Hiddleston? You’re in the Service?”

“Sorry? No, um, I’m an actor, actually.”

“Oh, I see.”

He looked at her, properly now, trying to work out what was happening. She was not wearing any make-up, and her face had a sort of clear beauty, even though she looked tired. He could imagine her in an old movie: black and white, the kind where everyone’s smoking and drinking cocktails. _He’d always loved the actresses in those. So enigmatic ..._ The woman in front of him would not have looked out of place. She was petite, but round in all the right places, although her clothes looked a little too large on her, as if she had recently lost weight. She sounded a bit like Celia Johnson when she spoke, with that clipped, glassy tone. He spotted the plain gold wedding band on her left hand. Her round brown eyes were steady, returning his scrutiny.

Beryl’s heart was beating just a little too fast. When she had first caught sight of him by the gate, for just a moment she had thought… _No._ It was normal to feel that, to see a lost loved one. But this man - _this stranger_ \- seemed so familiar, as if they had met before. He was so polite, so charming, so handsome. No wonder he was an actor. Suddenly she seemed to notice something else about him.

“Gosh, you really are soaked! Look, let me find you some dry clothes to put on. We can hang your wet things on the range for a bit. This rain can't keep up all day… Come on.”

She stood and led him into the front room. She opened a door in the corner and behind it was a narrow, steep staircase. His tall frame was a tight fit but he managed to follow her up it to the first floor, and into a bedroom. The wardrobe against the far wall was full of men’s clothing.

“These belonged to my husband… help yourself. Underwear’s in the tallboy… I’ll go and find you a proper towel…”

She squeezed past him as she left, and her scent reached him. _Lilac and lavender - old-fashioned, old lady perfume._ But she was not old, and he was in her bedroom.

The clothes he found were in keeping with everything else in the house. He chose a rough collarless cotton shirt and some baggy, thirties-style tweed trousers. The sight and feel of them transported him back to filming _The Deep Blue Sea._ Then he noticed the photograph on the tallboy; the groom was in _RAF_ uniform. He was a _Freddie Page-_ type: tall as he, handsome, high forehead, wide smile, forage cap at a jaunty angle; the bride - Beryl - was clinging joyfully to her man. It looked new, but the clothes… her hat… A shiver of something ran down his spine.

He was stepping out of his water-logged jeans when he heard her behind him. “Here you ar- Oh!”

He turned, shirtless, mostly naked. He was just in his damp boxer briefs. She was staring. She did not stop. He stared back. At her eyes, wide, wet; her mouth, slightly open, her lips pink and full. She stepped closer; he dropped the shirt he’d picked up onto the bed beside him. She began to rub his torso with the towel in an absent-minded fashion. Her eyes were fixed on his lips. He touched her arm and everything else ceased to matter.

_Who is she, where am I...WHEN ARE WE?_ It all faded away as her lips met his and the heat of her body through the tissue-thin cotton of her worn shirt warmed his cold damp skin. Tom’s fingers wove into her hair, the net that had gathered it falling as the pins loosened. It was soft, curly, fragrant against his nose. She pulled on his waist and he felt faint as the blood rushed to bolster his growing erection.

“ _Beryl_..”

She brushed over his lips. “Shhh…”

His long fingers travelled over her shoulders, her arms, and down, down, to press her against him, to make her moan and ratchet up his need for her. She was beautiful and mysterious and sad _and it was his birthday and hers and what did any of it matter..?_

Her clothes were gone and her bra was stranger than any he had seen. It was a cotton and elastic puzzle he had no clue how to solve. But he needn’t have worried: she removed it herself and then her breasts were before his hungry mouth, waiting, eager for his tongue, his teeth. He took her in, sucking softly, grazing her dark pink nipples, teasing the moles underneath the swell of her.

His body covered hers. She held him tight, she reached for him and he lost himself in her. When she opened up to him it was like nothing else; she was like no one else before. He was taken, transported and every ripple of her body, every bite of her teeth, every moan and cry was new, strange, familiar. He was driven, pulled to her, knowing and not knowing her.

_I don't do this. This isn’t me._

And so Tom watched himself from above. He watched as he drove into the woman; this woman he didn’t know but whose body felt as familiar as any lover he’d had. He held her head and kissed her, the tenderness of his mouth a counterpoint to the rough pounding of his hips. She watched him, her face serious, her eyes tearful, her mouth hungry and greedy. They were one and separate; they were close and distant; they were lovers and strangers.

And it was all real and unreal and yet he felt he was where he should be.

The rain still beat down on the thatch, draining down the window, the sound of it soothing as they lay on the counterpane.

“I saw the picture...”

“He died.” Tom felt his breath become awkward, undeserved. “At the beginning of the war.”

“In Iraq?”

“ _No_... In the Battle of France.”

“Was he your husband?”

“David. Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’m not the only widow.”

“No…”

The rain was easing. He heard the dog whimper downstairs.

“Beryl, I am not sure how... I should go. I need to get a breakdown service… My mother’s expecting me.” He sat up.

“Of course. But your clothes…”

“I’ll be OK.”

It was uncomfortable now. He was out of place. Not worthy. She felt it too, he could see. But her eyes were kind. Grateful.

He dressed quickly, shuddering at the cold clammy feeling of wet cotton and the struggle to get wet socks over damp feet. He said farewell to Gus and strode out into the persisting drizzle. He walked back to his car, needing something to ground him in his own life: it started first time, just as the sun came out. He looked at his watch: _that can’t be right..._ Only a few minutes had passed since he broke down…

Tom shook his head to clear it, then, feeling calmer, he drove on, north-east towards Snape and beyond it, the turning to Aldeburgh. He saw the tall hedge again, ahead of him on the left, but it looked rougher, unkempt. He slowed and then hit the brakes as he passed the end once more.

The cottage was not there. There was only part of one wall, with the remains of a chimney. He got out and looked closer. The ghostly shapes of the garden remained, everything overgrown with brambles, the fence a mess of rotten wood and ivy.

_I must be having some kind of episode…_

******

That evening, full of home cooked food and good red burgundy, a slice of birthday cake beside him, Tom sat down in Diana’s cosy sitting room. He opened his _MacBook_ and did a search. He soon found what he was looking for. Her name led him to an article on a WWII history site. On this very day, 9th February 1941, a damaged plane had crashed on the way back from a raid on Germany. It had hit a cottage a mile or so short of _RAF Woodbridge,_ killing the crew and the woman who lived there. And her dog.  

It had been Beryl Tudor’s 36th birthday.

“Are you alright dear?” His mother had looked up from her book, hearing him gasp. “You’ve gone a bit of a funny colour.”


End file.
